


Three Thousand Kisses Would Not Seem Too Much For Me

by bene_elim



Series: Innocence and Experience [4]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anxious Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley loves Aziraphale too but he just needs time to express that, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Holding Hands, Introspection, Love Confessions, M/M, Sad Crowley (Good Omens), Seaside, Supportive Aziraphale (Good Omens), but also more dialogue this time! yay!, but like... not what you expect probably, everything's sweet and good but Crowley just needs some help with feelings, if you want to make much sense of this, there is a gargoyle here to help no worries, want to make it clear that they are together! Crowley's just struggling with expression, you WILL need to read part 2 if not also part 1
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-20
Updated: 2019-08-20
Packaged: 2020-09-19 05:56:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20326219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bene_elim/pseuds/bene_elim
Summary: In which Crowley and Aziraphale take a trip to the Devonshire seaside, Crowley gets a talking to from a gargoyle, and a love confession is made.-"‘Besides,’ the gargoyle continued, ‘why are you afraid of telling him you love him when the thing you should be afraid of is losing the opportunity to do so, forever? How are you not more scared of never being able to tell him just what he means to you?’Crowley turned his back to the stone monster. There were only so many truths one can hear before he has to stop listening.‘You should tell him. Before you lose your chance.’‘Shut up,’Crowley said, eyes squeezing closed."





	1. And the Sunlight Clasps the Earth and the Moonbeams Kiss the Sea

**Author's Note:**

> I never expected to get the next part of this series written so quickly, but here we are! This is a three chaptered piece in which Crowley finally says _I love you_ to Aziraphale. It was emotionally exhausting to write, especially the last chapter with which I am still unhappy, but I really wanted to go for it. I challenged myself to include more dialogue this time, so I am both very sorry and rather proud of how it came out. 
> 
> I couldn't help the few William Blake references I snuck in there. I'm sure Aziraphale would have gotten along with him splendidly. I also sneaked a very vague reference to Philip Pullman's _His Dark Materials_ since the second volume of the _Book of Dust_ is coming out soon (and I recently preordered a limited edition signed copy!!) and I couldn't resist. 
> 
> Anyway, I really tried my best with this piece. I'm posting the first chapter now; I have just to look over the other two and title them, and then they'll be up too. Hopefully that'll be done by tonight. I want to once again thank all those who have commented on my other works: this series has continued and become what it has because of you. 
> 
> Title is a line from Catullus, poem 48; chapter title is a line from Percy Shelley's _Love's Philosophy_.
> 
> Enjoy!

Summer came to London with an unusual heat, and Crowley found his air conditioning unit broken. 

He gave it a scowl normally reserved for particularly withering plants; the metal ground together unpleasantly in fear. 

It would be simple to miracle it back into working order, perhaps, but he was allowed his moment of irritation. The thing was new, bought only a month ago and top of the range, as Crowley insisted every piece of technology in his flat should be. How dare it break down after only thirty days, and on the hottest day of summer so far, too? 

He growled, clicked his fingers impatiently at the useless lump of metal, and then preceded to completely ignore its metallic whines. He turned to his phone, instead, and called Aziraphale. 

'Angel. Lunch?' He said when Aziraphale picked up. 

_'Always, my dear,'_ Aziraphale replied, and his pleased tone soothed the fire of frustration smouldering in Crowley's heart.

'I'll come pick you up,' he said, and hung up. Perhaps seeing Aziraphale would allow him to forget about his stupid air con. 

-

The restaurant was a quaint little thing, seemingly smaller on the ivy-covered outside than on the Art Deco furnished inside. The lighting was of the softest warmth, haloing Aziraphale’s hair, and the mirror they sat next to painted them like an Impressionist tableaux. Crowley was sure that there existed a Renoir with an image just like theirs. 

‘Well, I told him that I loved it, of course,’ Aziraphale was saying. It was with the slightly slurred quality of one who is not _drunk, _but who was so relaxed that the words just slip easily out, one after the other. Crowley was half listening, half watching his lips move; his head rested in his palm, elbow on the table in the way he knew Aziraphale hated. A shared plate of what had once held cake sat between them, readjusting to its new contents of a few scant crumbs. 

‘Really? Even with the whole… Thing? Didn’t think your lot would go in for that,’ he said. 

‘Yes, well, perhaps not _Gabriel_, but _I _can appreciate fine literature, and the message behind the work was a fine one indeed. Mr Pullman knows how to tell a story like almost no other.’ Aziraphale replied primly. 

‘I heard the Archbishop what’s-his-face likes it. That true?’

‘How should I know? All I can tell you is what _I _think.’

‘Huh. Okay. Wish I could tell you what they’re saying Down There about it, but I still haven’t heard anything from them.’

‘Perhaps that’s a good thing, Crowley. Maybe they’re going to leave you alone…’

‘Nah,’ said Crowley, who was convinced (and would only renounce this belief with a honest-to-Someone God-sent vision) that Hell had not, _would not_, forget about him: they were just biding their time, waiting for him to feel vulnerable, waiting for him to think he’s finally escaped them, before dragging him straight back. ‘They’ll want to Talk, sooner or later.’ He said. He really rather hoped it would be _later._

The thing was, he was just starting to feel like he was _building a life_. He had spent six-thousand years in a sort of suspended animation, unable to truly settle down, always at the beck and call of his superiors. He may have been residing in London for the better part of four centuries, but he had constantly felt as though he were merely floating, _drifting_ above it all. Aziraphale had opened a bookshop and planted his feet in more or less the same place the whole time he’d been in London; Crowley had at least four previous addresses in the past one-hundred-and-fifty years. 

It wasn’t necessarily that he disliked being a demon. He enjoyed the particular freedoms that he did get, the ability to cause a little trouble, inspire a little ill-will. It was fun, mostly, being a harbinger of chaos. Because, that was what he dealt in, really: chaos. He wasn’t into bringing _actual _evil into people’s lives; they did enough of that themselves. But he had always had to look over his shoulder, justify his every action, when he still reported back to Hell. These months without word from Beelzebub or Hastur or anyone else had been wonderful. 

He looked at Aziraphale’s mildly concerned face and let his own furrowed eyebrows relax. He smiled. 

How easy it was to push thoughts of broken air con units and awful bosses to the back of his mind when the one he loved sat across a table from him. Suddenly Crowley’s mind was clear of all else but the memory of Aziraphale’s soft hands in his, the dusty scent of his hair, the cologne he wore. It wasn’t the one he had tried out during the days of the aborted apocalypse that his barber had suggested; it was something from Penhaligon’s collection, something that Crowley knew. He knew it because he had been the one to buy Aziraphale’s first bottle of the stuff, as a thank-you gift for covering a little temptation on the Isle of Wight. Aziraphale had been thrown off the side of the ferry transporting passengers to and from the island and the mainland; Crowley had thought it only right to get him something as compensation, though he’d had a jolly good laugh first. 

‘My dear?’ 

How did such a clever angel always end up in such situations? 

‘Yes, angel?’

‘Well, I was going to ask if you were alright, but then you started grinning. What’s going on?’

‘Remember when I asked you to pop to the Isle of Wight for me and they threw you off the boat?’ 

Aziraphale’s eyes slid slowly shut as though they were wipers trying to erase the memory from his mind. 

‘No.’ He said, though Crowley could tell he was lying. He grinned wider. 

‘Yeah, me neither,’ he said, and then stood up. ‘Come on.’

Outside, the weather remained unchanged. Crowley’s summer attire was altered slightly from his rest-of-the-year clothes: the sleeves on his jacket were rolled up and the neck on his shirt was slightly lower cut. Many probably looked at him and wondered how he could survive the heat in his completely black getup; _he _looked at _Aziraphale’s _completely _unchanged_ wardrobe and wondered how that velveteen waistcoat hadn’t suffocated the angel yet. At least he had lost the beige coat. 

Summers in London have always had a strange quality to them, like they had been preserved in glass bottles and sent sailing out, all hot humid air and burning sunlight. Neither Crowley nor Aziraphale were strangers to much more extreme summers, having spent many a year in parts of the world much closer to the equator than England could hope to get, but after becoming accustomed to the normal climate of the UK, such geographically-unusual heat bothered even them. There was something quite unsettling about sweat-sticky tourists, crowding in insulating groups that added to the warmth, the kicking up of dust (though London was, thankfully, much less dustier than many other capitals), the terrible sun. Especially when one’s used to colder temperatures. 

‘Let’s get out of London for a bit,’ Crowley suggested on a whim as they walked towards the Bentley. The bad thing about Covent Garden was that there was absolutely no parking to be found at all, ever; not even the nice restaurants could redeem it for that, Crowley thought. 

‘Out of London? Wherever would we go?’ 

Crowley shrugged. He hadn’t really planned that far. 

‘South. West. Doesn’t matter.’

‘Well… alright,’ Aziraphale said, not without hesitance. He wrung his hands, brow creasing in thought. ‘For how long?’

‘’Til this heat stops. I don’t know. We can figure it out.’

‘I’d need to ask someone to watch the bookshop…’

Crowley stopped mid-step and turned to Aziraphale. He slid his sunglasses to the end of his nose and looked at him from over the top of them, a singular eyebrow raised. Aziraphale fretted below his gaze. 

‘Oh, alright, then, let’s get out of London, as you said,’ he eventually conceded, looking thoroughly annoyed that Crowley had essentially shot down his only argument with just one look. ‘But you have to decide where.’

Crowley grinned. ‘Fine. How about… Bristol?’

‘Oh, no, definitely not.’

‘What?’

‘Didn’t _you_ oversee Bristol’s development? I shan’t set foot there.’ Said Aziraphale, nose upturned. It wasn’t necessarily that he had anything against Crowley or his creations, but the one time he had visited Manchester had left him in tears, and now he refused to go to any other town Crowley claimed as his own. 

‘Actually, I didn’t, the humans built that one up themselves,’ Crowley muttered, stupidly feeling like he should defend his creational abilities and his choices. He’d changed his mind about Bristol, anyway. ‘Alright, how about somewhere in Devon? Go to the seaside for a day or two?’ 

‘Hm…’ 

‘Come _on_, angel,’ he insisted. They had reached the Bentley; Aziraphale had placed his hand on the door handle but Crowley refused to unlock the car until he got what he wanted. 

‘_Yes_, fine, we’ll go to Devon,’ Aziraphale said, though he sounded much more resigned than he looked. ‘We should pack a picnic, perhaps, before we go.’

‘Nah, we’ll be fine, we’ll find something there!’ Crowley said. He was given a look of fond irritation which he devoutly ignored. Instead, he grinned something wild as he turned the engine on and pulled out into the London traffic, not checking his mirrors. He surpassed a chuckle at the sound of honking behind him as he drove off, Aziraphale already looking like he regretted his decision in the seat next to him. 

-

The drive to Devon from London was hellish. This was, in part, due to the M25, for any journey that incorporates even the shortest segment of that particular motorway was destined to be hellish - not necessarily because it represented the sigil Odegra and meant _Hail the Great Beast, Devourer of Worlds_, but because there had never, in all its history since its creation, not been a traffic jam _somewhere _on it (and, of course, it was normally exactly where you needed to be). 

The other factor responsible for the hellish journey was the length. He’d never gone for such a long drive with Aziraphale before, the ride from London to Tadfield being just over an hour. This journey was already stretching towards the three hour mark. 

‘I just think,’ Aziraphale said, ‘that Mr Blake was very much under appreciated, and- dear me, Crowley, must you?’ Crowley had swerved particularly sharply; he simply shrugged and muttered _pothole, _but in truth he was _bored_. He fiddled with the radio blindly; it turned on to play Queen. 

‘Aren’t you listening to me, Crowley?’

‘Believe it or not, angel, but you’ve ranted about this before.’

‘I have _not_…_!’ _

‘Yeah, you were drunk, maybe you don’t remember,’

‘Dear boy-‘

‘You think Blake was under appreciated by his contemporaries and your lot Upstairs should have designated him a Very Special Person, or whatever; am I right?’

‘Well, I-‘

‘There you go. Well, you definitely got him! He was _much _too pious to come to us.’

Aziraphale sniffed indignantly. Then he turned to look out the window. 

The Somerset countryside rushed by them. It was beautiful, Crowley had to admit, all lush, verdant greens, the occasional field of yellow rapeseed or purple lavender patching the earth like a knitted quilt. The sun was lowering in the sky ahead of them, casting the car in its summer gold tones; Aziraphale had never looked so angelic, resting his head on the passenger window, staring with serene expression at the flowers, hands for once relaxed and not twisting in his lap. The beiges he was wrapped in glowed golden in the light, his white-blond hair a silver crown, his blue bowtie swimming in the brilliance, just like his eyes. 

How incandescent he was, in Crowley’s black car, next to Crowley’s shadowy self. 

A car horn honked impossibly loud, startling him. He quickly readjusted his grip on the steering wheel and dragged his eyes back to the road.

‘Oh, dear, let’s try not get into an accident, shall we?’ Aziraphale said, shifting. Crowley eyed him in his peripheral vision, mourning the peace broken. Time, for a moment, had stood so utterly still. 

Queen played softly throughout the car. Crowley wanted to shove his hand into the glove compartment and find another tape, but alas, they’d all been in the car for longer than a fortnight. They’d have naught but Queen to keep them company for the next hour, or however long this journey was going to take. 

_I want to break free, _indeed. 

Maybe it was the heat. Crowley didn’t know why he was feeling so easily irritable. There was something at the back of his throat, scratching at the skin there, tasting bitter. It was like a lump, but every time he opened his mouth to try and get rid of it, it lodged itself further in. He wasn’t sure what it was, but it felt like a physical manifestation of apprehension: a horrible piece of fear’s clothing stuck in his throat. It got worse whenever he held Aziraphale’s hand, or kissed his forehead, or caught sight of him when he looked like that. It felt like his heart had chewed off a part of itself and sent it upwards and it was struggling to come out, but it wasn’t allowed back down either. It felt like suffocation. 

He wondered absently whether Aziraphale had ever felt like this. He kept his eyes firmly on the car in front of him and resolutely did not ask. 

-

The sun was starting to dip, set, sleep as they rolled through the Devonshire country. Crowley had picked a sign at random and decided to follow it; it was taking them to Westward Ho! where reportedly there was a pleasant beach. Aziraphale was as close to sleep as he had ever seen him in the passenger seat, trancelike and so at ease that it tugged at Crowley’s heart. He could do anything he wanted, conjure Hellfire and burn him alive if he was so inclined. What kind of angel trusts a demon?

Or, perhaps the question should really be, what kind of demon was _he_, disinclined to do such things?

He glided the Bentley to a stop next to a promenade lined with pastel beach huts and little cafes. The bay they were in curved round; Crowley could see the sprawling hills across the water, beautiful in their golden-cast greenery; the taller structures of hotels and holiday residencies spoiled the coastline behind him in comparison. The sky was as cloudless as the sky over London had been, and so blue that the horizon between it and the sea was only distinguishable by the little lump of rock just barely visible that was Lundy Island. 

He laid a hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder, drawing him back from his doze. 

‘We’re here, angel.’

‘Hm? Oh,’ Aziraphale said, gaze directed at Crowley, clear eyes like the sky and the sea and with the reflection of Crowley framed within them. Then he turned to look out his window and said, ‘Oh…’ 

_Oh. _Quite. 

They got out the car. Crowley took Aziraphale’s hand, as soft as the day he had first held it and as warm as the sun beating on their sides. Together they stepped gingerly down onto the beach, a small miracle on Crowley’s behalf keeping the sand out of their shoes. 

‘We should’ve brought a picnic,’ Aziraphale muttered, but with the absent quality of one only speaking for the sake of speaking. His eyes were in fact glued to the sea, hypnotised by the in and out of the waves and the sea foam spluttering around the outcrop of rocks a few meters out in the water. 

Then he said, quite forgetting his grievances about not having a picnic, ‘I haven’t seen the sea in _so long_.’ 

It sounded like a plea and Crowley wasn’t sure for what. For a moment, a second, he felt guilty, or perhaps it was sadness; he couldn’t tell. Had he dredged up some long buried memory of Aziraphale’s that he’d rather remain forgotten? There was so much uncertainty and he wanted to worry, but he found that with each pull of the sea outwards, his mind blanked too. Instead he clicked his fingers and laid a blanket down on the sand for them, and pulled Aziraphale down with him as he sat. 

And they sat and sat, hours passing them by and silence a warm friend between them. The sky dipped into peach and blush, then orange and red, then purple and navy, a Turner painting unfolding before them; the pinprick stars shrugged off their camouflaging clothes and danced bare above them. In the night the hush of waves seemed even louder, the water’s surface a polished mirror whereupon the moon projected its light. 

Aziraphale’s hand felt like a grounding weight within his own. His sunglasses had come off just after the sun had finally slipped below the horizon but it was so dark in front of them, the moon and stars the only things assuring them they weren’t looking into a void. The hand not holding Aziraphale’s ran gently through Aziraphale’s hair; his head had, at some indiscernible point, come to rest on Crowley’s shoulder. He didn’t smell like the dusty bookshop anymore and even his cologne was fading; he smelt like salt and sand. They both did, probably, having endured the costal winds blowing their way all evening. 

A summer chill fell across them, warm only in its nonthreatening nature. It felt like a promise from the sun for more heat tomorrow rather than the usual English chills which were only ever damp and unpleasant. 

Crowley shifted to sit closer to Aziraphale. Their knees were touching now, and so were their hips and their sides. He leant down and pressed a lingering kiss to Aziraphale’s crown. 

‘Let’s stay up and watch the sunrise,’ He said. Aziraphale squeezed his hand in agreement. 


	2. And So I Hold Myself Back and Swallow the Cry of a Darkened Sobbing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley has a chat with a gargoyle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm pretty nervous about this story as a whole, but especially about this chapter. I tried to translate my thoughts into words but writing prose is so damn hard, mad respect for writers who do this more than me. 
> 
> Chapter title from Rilke's First Duino Elegy. Rilke just _gets_ me, y'know?
> 
> Chapter three will be up within a few hours (I hope).

Night faded, the sky lightening like the fabric it was made of was being stretched taught to let the sun shine through its fibres. Lilac and rose gave way to the palest of blues. 

The beach was once again coming to life, dawn-risers coming to windsurf on the waves. Crowley and Aziraphale watched them, still huddled together. It was Thursday, it was warm, and they were, essentially, on holiday. 

What should they do?

‘Shall we go for a walk, my dear? Explore the area?’ Aziraphale murmured, his voice almost lost to the rush of waves coming in and out. The water was so close, now, the tide almost at its highest. Crowley couldn’t help noticing that its blue was the same shade as Aziraphale’s bowtie. 

‘Yeah, I s’pose that’d be nice,’ he said, and slowly stood. He stretched and then extended a hand to Aziraphale to help pull him up. 

They gathered the blanket and folded it, which took the both of them and no small amount of effort; it was particularly windy, as costal areas generally are, and the corners they were trying to grab and put together kept evading them. Crowley had wanted to just miracle it out of existence; Aziraphale argued that they couldn’t do that, especially not in such plain sight of so many humans, and besides, they might want it again later. In Crowley’s opinion, it hadn’t been worth the messing around to fold it into a neat little rectangle, but whatever made Aziraphale happy. 

The promenade was your average seaside town promenade, though perhaps a little quieter and less impressive than the promenades of such towns as Brighton or Southend. The beach huts with their pastel pinks, yellows, blues, greens and purples looked like life-sized cake decorations. A block of flats dotted the road next to them here, a few bungalows there; eventually, they came across a path leading away from the beach and, with a look at each other and a shrug, they took it. 

It was a narrow thing, uphill, full of potholes and mud puddles; Crowley went ahead and mapped out a walkway which Aziraphale carefully tracked and followed to keep the mud out of his shoes. Their joined hands were suddenly no longer just an expression of love: they had become a method of balancing while hopping from one safe, mud-free patch of concrete to another. 

The path ended at a main road, and across it was a church. It was made of red brick with a very gothic look about it, in its arches and embellishments, though perhaps it was not quite that old. Gargoyles looked down at them menacingly; how strange for humans to create something so terrifying with the intention to protect. Crowley supposed it worked, though how the humans themselves weren’t scared of them was a mystery to him. 

Aziraphale looked at him, and Crowley only just caught the flash of hope in his eye before it turned to shame. 

‘Go,’ he said, knowing that’s what Aziraphale wanted. He wasn’t too bothered having to wait outside. It was pretty enough to look at, at least. 

Aziraphale gave him a smile that could light all the candles in that church and crossed the road. He looked once more back over his shoulder at Crowley, small smile of thanks still on his face, before he swung open one of the huge wooden doors and entered the church. 

Crowley looked up at a gargoyle and made stony eye contact. He scowled at it and clicked his fingers once, hoping to make the stone rearrange itself to turn away, but if anything the gargoyle seemed to stare even harder. He blinked (and imagined, though he knew he had to be mistaken, that the gargoyle blinked back) and instead turned himself. There was a much better view to be had with his back to the church, the sea in all its unfathomable blueness seen so pretty and sparkling from the top of the hill he was on. If there was anything to fear in the universe, it was the sea. Hell could be cruel, God could be wrathful, but the sea knew nothing of cruelty nor wrath: it was an inconsequential mass of empty that could destroy, plunder and murder just as easily as it could give life. The difference between it and God was that She had Reasons, and the sea had naught but action. 

Crowley wondered what Aziraphale was doing in the church. 

The last time that he had known Aziraphale to go to a church was in the forties, when he’d made the terrible, stupid, very Aziraphale-like mistake of trusting the wrong people. Churches just weren’t his scene, he’d told Crowley once (though not in so many words; rather, it had actually been in quite a few more, during which he’d explained why Blake was such a revolutionary and how his ideals of personal religion verses organised religion were so important). Essentially it came down to the fact that if he wanted to pray or feel close to God, he’d do so in the comfort of his own bookshop; and in reality, was there any place on earth much holier? It was the residence of an angel, after all. 

What it came down to was that Aziraphale didn’t believe churches were particularly a necessity to devote oneself to God. What could he be doing in there? 

‘You’re scared to love him. Why is that?’ A deep, old voice said. 

Crowley whirled around and looked about him wildly. No one was there. 

‘Hello?’ He said, cautiously. He could just imagine the kind of trouble he could be in if that voice belonged to an agent of Hell: here he was, waiting around by a church within which was an angel. The very angel that they knew him to be working with. 

‘I said, why are you so scared of loving him?’ 

It was coming from above. Very slowly, Crowley raised his head and looked at the gargoyle that he had just convinced himself had not blinked at him moments ago. 

‘What?’ He said, in shock. A lump of stone was talking to him. 

‘Are you going to make me repeat myself _again_? Do you need your ears cleaned? Why are you so scared of loving him?’ The lump of stone asked, tartly. 

‘Who?’ 

‘_’Who?’ ‘Who?’ _Are you pulling my leg? I’m hundreds of years old, boy, don’t think me stupid!’ 

_I’m six thousand years old, you stupid lump of stone, _Crowley didn’t say. Aziraphale would have his neck if he ever learnt he had been rude to a church guardian, even if that guardian happened to be a _stupid lump of stone_. 

‘That angel, that’s who! The angel that just went inside the church, the angel you were holding hands with! _‘Who?!’_’ 

‘Oh,’ Crowley said, helpless. 

‘_Oh’s _right,’ the gargoyle said. ‘You’re really going to make me ask again? Why are you so scared of loving him?’

Well, that was a question and a half, wasn’t it? The prize-winning question. The question he’d been too afraid to confront since Aziraphale had first said the words _I love you_ aloud. He’d never made Crowley say them back. Crowley couldn’t express his gratitude for that. 

‘You know what he is, so you must know what I am. That’s why I’m scared.’ He finally admitted. Being around Aziraphale allowed him to forget that he was a demon, forget that he was essentially _unforgivable _and _unlovable_. Aziraphale had managed to do both those things; in one afternoon, Crowley had found himself both _forgiven _and _loved_. Around Aziraphale, he felt more like a human who had the incredible ability to perform miracles, rather than an occult being. 

‘That’s a terrible reason.’ The gargoyle replied. Crowley shrugged, glad for his sunglasses which covered his damp eyes. 

‘Yeah, I s’pose,’ he said. There wasn’t much else _to _say, when a gargoyle tells you your reasons aren’t good enough. 

‘He’s in there right now, knowing you love him but still sometimes doubting it because you never tell him. He loves you absolutely; I’ve never felt so much love from one being. He tells you that. Don’t you think you should return the favour?’ 

‘What? I can’t do that! No, nonono. You don’t understand.’ Crowley said, a pang of guilt at having left Aziraphale to wonder whether he truly did love him settling in his stomach. 

‘What don’t I understand?’

‘I’m a _demon_, you stupid lump of stone! He’s an angel, the only one worth the feathers on his wings, the only one that lives up to the expectations people have of angels: he’s loving and forgiving and kind, kinder than anyone I’ve ever met! He is love in all its forms, it’s imbued in his wings and in his mind and in his every word! He is so misguided, he’s always been misguided, really, but he’s never been so misguided as to love _me_. I wish I could deserve the forgiveness he bestows on me and the love he has for me. But I’m a demon. It’s not meant to be. I can’t help counting down the days until something finally happens that’ll keep us apart for the rest of - for the rest of forever! And I can’t face finally admitting that I love him and that he’s the only thing that makes _forever_ worthwhile when I know that one day, he’ll be taken from me.’ 

He had never even thought these things, too afraid to admit them in his own mind. He was panting hard with exhaustion and shock at his own words, and shaking with the strength of all the emotions he was feeling, mixed and many as they were, a soup turning his stomach. His heart was pounding, aching, weeping. 

What a sight he must look, shouting nonsense about angels and demons to the sky like a madman. 

‘Ah,’ the gargoyle said. 

_Ah, _indeed. 

Then it said, ‘That’s a terrible reason.’ 

‘_What?_’ Crowley spat. 

‘Every reason to fear love is a terrible one. What you _should _fear, instead, is a life without it. You went without love for so many years; don’t you think it’s finally time for you to start finally living?’

‘But I don’t have a life without love, anymore. Aziraphale loves me. And I love him, even if I haven’t said it.’

‘Ah, but it is because you haven’t said it yet that you are unable to completely let go of the life you had _before _love. Is it not more true that you are fearful of change? Change from how things have been between you two for so long, now, that you cannot bear to seek new horizons, even if they promise to be better and more beautiful?’ 

Crowley couldn’t speak for he knew the stupid lump of stone to be right. 

‘Besides,’ the gargoyle continued, ‘why are you afraid of telling him you love him when the thing you should be afraid of is losing the opportunity to do so, forever? How are you not more scared of never being able to tell him just what he means to you?’ 

Crowley turned his back to the stone monster. There were only so many truths one can hear before he has to stop listening. 

‘You should tell him. Before you lose your chance.’ 

‘_Shut up_,’ Crowley said, eyes squeezing closed. He knew the gargoyle was right. He was afraid of telling Aziraphale he loved him because he couldn’t bare the thought that eventually Hell would come and tear them apart, but he knew that should that happen and he hadn’t told Aziraphale how he felt, he’d feel even worse. In the end, it was just a matter of his own cowardice. He could keep making excuses, or he could finally say the words and live a life free of the fears he was shackled with now. 

He turned back to the gargoyle. ‘I don’t know how,’ he choked out, scared and ashamed. 

The gargoyle did not reply. 

-

Crowley was still staring into the stony eyes of the monstrous sculpture when Aziraphale came out of the church, half an hour later. 

‘Crowley?’ He said, looking uncertainly up at the gargoyle himself. 

Crowley looked at him.

‘Let’s go, angel.’ 

He’d tell him. He would. But he needed a few moments to gather his bearings first. 

-

They found themselves in a small village pub, early that afternoon. It was quiet and it was comfy and it was old, Tudor beams a hazard to all but the shortest of people. A bottle of wine sat between them on the circular table they occupied, tucked in the most unobtrusive corner Crowley could find. 

He couldn’t get the gargoyle’s words out of his mind. 

Ideally, he’d tell Aziraphale how he felt in the bookshop, after a glass or two of some delicious vintage that Aziraphale had hoarded away. This is how he always pictured it, in his head, the few rare times he’d allow himself to even think about it. In the bookshop, sprawled in their chairs, their hands together, warmth enveloping them. The words would be a whisper, brief, and Aziraphale would just smile that heart-achingly loving smile and whisper back _I know_. Then they’d just continue to hold hands and drink wine and reminisce and laugh all evening, like they normally do. 

Instead, he was in a pub somewhere in Devon and there was an old couple three tables over who kept eyeing them up suspiciously and an old bloke at the bar who had a golden retriever sat at his feet and a TV showing highlights from last night’s football game on the wall adjacent to them. The wine was good only in that it was alcoholic, but it was nowhere up to the standards of the wines Aziraphale had been collecting for centuries, and the seats were old, uncomfortable, rickety chairs and nowhere near as pleasant to sit on as the bookshop’s armchairs. 

He could wait, perhaps, until they got back to London. But the whole point that the gargoyle had made was that he’d done _enough _waiting. And he knew, in his heart, that even if the setting wasn’t right, the time was. 

He took a desperate gulp of his wine and imagined that he could will the whole blasted thing away. Then he rebuked himself for his cowardice. 

‘Aziraphale.’ He said. 

‘Hm? Yes, my dear?’ 

‘I… I, I just… ngk,’ he said, and hung his head. He clenched his hands in fists, steeled himself, and looked straight into Aziraphale’s confused, concerned eyes. 

‘I… lov-‘ he started, and was shocked to find himself interrupted. 

‘No.’ 

_No?_ What does that even mean?

‘…What?’

‘No, Crowley. I don’t want you to say it just because you feel you have to. I don’t need to hear it to know. I want you to say it only if you want to and you’re ready.’ 

Blessed angel. 

‘How do I know when I’m ready?’ Crowley asked, more out of curiosity than anything. He felt certain he was. 

‘If you have to ask, then you’re probably not.’ Aziraphale answered. He had a soft look about him, the afternoon light streaming through the pub windows and hitting him just right, a smile on his face that never failed to make Crowley’s breath stop and his heart stutter. What was it about the Devonshire light that turned ordinary pictures into images worthy of a place in the Tate? Aziraphale looked like a panel of stained glass. 

It served to take Crowley’s breath and to discourage him from speaking again. The words were at the fore of his mind, waiting to trip off his tongue, but every time he opened his mouth his heart lodged itself in his throat and all sound was muted. He couldn’t say it. 

Maybe he’d never been able to, and never will, either. Maybe he was destined to live in the space between love and acknowledgement, ever fearful of what could happen in the future and absently aware that the regret of not admitting his love would hurt more than anything else that could happen. 

He drank his wine. 


	3. While Chains of Love on his Silver Feet Will Hold Him in Lingering Fond Delay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley learns that perfect moments don't exist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is chapter three, as promised. I really, _really_ struggled here and it's probably somewhat obvious, but I'm hoping it all works out to satisfaction in the end. I wanted Crowley to learn and overcome in this story, confronting fears. The gargoyle and Aziraphale both provide didactic roles; in a way, I am reflecting myself on Crowley. I suppose that's something all writers do. 
> 
> Anyway. Chapter title is from Adelaide Procter's _A Chant_. I struggled with naming chapters in this whole story, nothing seemed to fit quite right. I'm almost glad to be done with it.

The sea whispered wisdom in non-existent languages as Crowley and Aziraphale approached the parked Bentley. Crowley strained to listen, hopeful and oh-so-certain that he could make out what it was saying. It sounded like the possibility of answers to questions he hadn’t even thought of asking before.

But he’d had enough answers for one day. The gargoyle’s words were stuck in his head like a needle stuck in a groove. 

‘What were you doing in the church, angel?’ He asked, curious.

Aziraphale looked at him strangely, like he had asked what a doctor was doing in a hospital. 

‘Well, it’s just, I know how you feel about churches, you don’t make a habit of going to them. Just thought it was strange.’ 

‘It’s the Assumption of Mary today, my dear,’ Aziraphale said. 

Ah, of course, that made sense. Crowley nodded, distractedly. The death and subsequent ascension of the Virgin. The woman who was seen as the paragon of virtue, love and purity: both chaste and a mother, setting an impossible standard for all women thereafter. The church celebrates her but diminishes her sex. 

Crowley felt a certain kinship to her, or rather perhaps to human women as a whole. For centuries they were expected to follow Mary’s example and somehow achieve the impossible, to be mothers and yet still _pure_. Crowley was also after the impossible: to be a demon and yet be forgiven. 

He couldn’t understand why Aziraphale’s freely given redemption did not serve to make him _feel _forgiven. He didn’t expect to be able to walk into churches with no pain or to have Gabriel or any other angel recognise him as anything other than a demon. He truly didn’t know quite what he was after. But he assumed he’d know when he felt it. 

Maybe he just had to speak a little louder and ask God. 

‘Let’s go back to London, yeah?’ He said, suddenly quite tired. The seaside was beautiful and a respite from the suffocating air of London, but now he was getting homesick for the bookshop. 

‘If you’re sure,’ Aziraphale said, ‘I thought you wanted to wait this heat out before heading back?’

‘Nah. I miss your wine stock.’ 

They got in the car. It wasn’t stuffy in the way cars get when they sit in the sun for too long; Crowley wouldn’t stand for it. He opened the windows and started driving. 

-

London was, miraculously, a breath cooler when they arrived. It was evening, the blush of the sky no less beautiful against the backdrop of skyscrapers than sea. A breeze blew through the city. It felt like a kiss against Crowley’s cheek. He opened the passenger door and helped Aziraphale out of the Bentley. 

For a moment, Aziraphale stood there, on the pavement. He had his eyes closed, head tipped back and face to the cloudless expanse of sky that was rapidly darkening. He looked like any other human, enjoying the warmth of the dying sun beating on his skin, enjoying the feel of the wind through his hair. Crowley wanted to pull his head down and kiss him, deep, as refreshing as the breeze. Instead, Crowley squeezed his hand and pressed a lingering kiss to his forehead, his free hand smoothing through his hair. 

‘Let’s go inside, angel,’ he said against Aziraphale’s skin, eyeing the sky with its emerging stars above his head. They separated when he felt Aziraphale nod, but their hands remained glued together. 

Aziraphale let him unlock the doors. It wasn’t particularly noteworthy, for he had used his key to unlock the bookshop door a number of times before. But never with Aziraphale right by his side. It felt like an extraordinary act of trust, even if it was probably actually just a meaningless decision on Aziraphale’s part. Maybe he’d just forgotten his own key. 

They’d only been away for two days but swinging open the bookshop doors was like greeting an old friend. The inside felt cool and deserted in the way a house does when its occupants go on holiday; it was like the bookshop itself had missed them. Crowley couldn’t help smiling when he caught sight of his chair in the backroom. 

He sat himself down in it, hardly bothering with taking his blazer or sunglasses off. 

‘Wine, my dear?’ Aziraphale said from next to a cabinet within which he kept some bottles. 

‘Nah, I think I’m alright, thanks,’ Crowley said. He was feeling rather sleepy. He didn’t need sleep, of course, but he could feel his eyelids growing heavy and he did nothing to stop them. 

‘Oh,’ he head Aziraphale say. ‘Alright.’ And then, from beneath quickly closing eyes, he watched as Aziraphale settled in his own chair across him and pulled open a book. 

Now would be the perfect moment, the quiet a blanket of comfort around them, the sun haloing Aziraphale’s hair, the warmth of the shop lulling him and making him far safer than he’s felt in a long time. Now would be the perfect moment, a whisper not out of place. He could picture it happening so vividly that for a moment he wondered whether he did it, whether he said the words. All he had to do was open his mouth, whisper three syllables, reach across and take Aziraphale’s hand. It would be just like he always dreamed it to be. _I love you_. 

His eyes slipped closed. 

-

When Crowley woke, the sky was dark. Aziraphale still had a book open in his lap across from him, the desk light providing a soft warm glow by which he read. 

‘Ngk,’ he said, pushing himself upright from where he had slouched. 

‘Good evening, my dear,’ Aziraphale said, not taking his eyes off his book. He turned a page. 

‘Evening.’ Crowley said, and took a longer look out the window. It was night time. ‘How long have I been asleep?’ He asked, slightly horrified; he hoped it hadn’t been anything ridiculous like a month. Even a week would be a little embarrassing. 

‘Just a day.’ Aziraphale replied. ‘I would have miracled the chair into a bed, but when I tried to rearrange you, you tried to kick me. I decided to leave you alone.’ 

Ah. Yes. He wasn't used to being around others when he slept. ‘Good idea. Thanks.’ 

A silence fell upon them. Aziraphale had yet to look up from his book; Crowley felt a strange coldness trickle down his back despite the warmth of the bookshop. 

Before he’d fallen asleep, he’d had the perfect moment in his grasp. Now, a day later and circumstances only differing by the hour that it was, he felt like he had a missed a chance, and that he’d never have another. He wanted to hang his head and berate himself for not taking the opportunity when he had it. He could already feel a forever of regret burning at the back of his throat.

Could he say it anyway? Was he ready?

_If you have to ask, then you’re probably not. _

But with a day of oblivion behind him and a future of uncertainty ahead, how could he ever be ready? He was scared, yes; but did that mean he wasn’t ready? Perhaps he was just scared enough to blurt it out. The question was, was he more scared of saying it, or of living a life where he just kept putting it off? 

He watched the lights of Soho flicker and dance as the night crowd rushed past the bookshop window. These people, humans, who went through the very same things as he was every single day of their lives. They had a mere eighty years, maybe, to sort themselves out, put themselves out of their fear. He’d had six-thousand. Would it be ridiculous to ask for another six-thousand? 

Pioneers of languages and a million different ways to say _I love you_ in each one. Why couldn’t he find the right way? 

The bookshop needed a warmth that it lacked. 

With a click of his fingers, the candles around them lit up. Suddenly the space was no longer limited to the little corner illuminated by Aziraphale with his desk lamp and book; Crowley felt at once more relaxed, the darkness having providing an illusion of coldness. 

‘My dear?’ Aziraphale said, finally looking away from his book. He’d placed a finger between the pages to mark his place while he briefly closed it. Crowley miracled a bookmark to replace it and then took his sunglasses off. 

‘Put the book away, angel, I’m in the mood to get drunk.’ 

Maybe alcohol would be what he needed. People could say all kinds of things they wouldn’t dream of without the aid of a good few glasses of wine. 

He took the glass when Aziraphale handed it to him and stared deep into it, like it held the answers to the universe. 

‘Are you thinking about what happened at the pub yesterday, Crowley?’ 

Crowley sniffed. 

‘I meant it, my dear,’ Aziraphale said, so soft that his words were almost lost. ‘I don’t want you to say it until you know you’re ready to say it.’

‘But I _want _to say it!’ 

Aziraphale leant back in his seat, eyes guarded but widened. He said nothing but Crowley could hear what he would not speak: _So say it, then_. 

‘I _want _to, but no moment is the right one. I want it to be right.’ 

Aziraphale softened from his upright, careful posture. ‘There is no _right moment_, Crowley,’ he smiled. ‘Do you think I would have chosen to tell you in the way I did? Desperate and terrified that I had ruined our friendship? If I had a choice, I would have told you here, in comfort, and if I had it my way, I wouldn’t have felt half as desperate as I did. Perfect moments don’t exist, my dear, you have to create them; haven’t you learnt this over six-thousand years?’

Crowley had, indeed, realised this. But he’d never really thought about it - or, rather, it had slipped his mind somewhat. This was so important. He didn’t want to hear that it couldn’t be perfect. 

He said as much. 

‘Oh, Crowley, don’t you understand? It will be perfect, anyway, no matter what.’ Aziraphale replied, grabbing his hand and holding it tight, a plead for Crowley to listen. 

Crowley opened his mouth. He felt the words find their path from his heart, working their way up to his tongue. For a horrifying, terror-inducing moment, he thought they got lodged in his throat. He choked, coughed, and they tripped into the centre of his mouth, hiding on the roof of his mouth; he scraped his tongue against them to bring them down, and then pushed them forward, outwards, not caring for the way they tried to crawl back in.

He drew a deep breath. 

‘I adore you. I’m in love with you, angel, Aziraphale. I love you.’ 

It felt so mediocre in comparison to what he truly felt. How could he express that his head hurt every time he thought of a future without Aziraphale in it, that his heart ached like it was being pulled apart every time Aziraphale smiled that stupid smile of his or spoke with that particular lilt to his voice, or held his hand as though it were an ancient relic to be treasured. How could he say that the many flaws Aziraphale saw in himself were the very reasons that Crowley loved him, that no angel could ever hold a candle to him, that he adored him so ardently that often he lost his words. Demons aren’t _supposed_ to feel like this. He wondered whether bathing in Holy Water would hurt as much as loving Aziraphale. 

The very smile that always threatened to make a butchery of Crowley’s heart fluttered upon Aziraphale’s face. His eyes were damp. Crowley reached out unsure, never having intended to make him cry. 

‘Angel? I’m sorry, I - don’t cry,’ he pleaded. 

‘I’m not crying,’ Aziraphale lied, ‘I’m just happy. I love you, too, dear, Crowley.’ 

Crowley wanted to sob. Aziraphale had been right, perhaps; the moment had seemed so wrong, not quite what he’d always imagined, too cold. But he’d made it right. He’d made it perfect. He felt it now: he wouldn’t want it any other way. 

He took Aziraphale’s hand and kissed his knuckles, and then they sat together in the candle-soft light of the bookshop. Their hands were joined and they had a half dozen bottles of wine within reach. Conversation became about Anathema’s blooming herb and crystal shop, and about Mr Shadwell’s plans to propose to Madame Tracy, and about how Adam might do when he restarts school next month. The night outside deepened and then lightened into dawn, but it went unnoticed by the two man-shaped beings in the long-standing bookshop. They had plenty of time to watch other sunrises. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end of summer is fast approaching and I very much doubt I will have time to write much when I go to university, so this may be the last thing I'll be uploading for a while. I might be able to write part 5 before my course starts, and I certainly hope to write an interlude detailing the story where Aziraphale gets thrown off the Isle of Wight ferry that Crowley references in chapter one, but I'll have to see how things go. 
> 
> At any rate, I'd love to hear your thoughts! Thank you very much for reading, and if you've followed this since part one I truly hope I've done your wishes for the progression of this series justice.


End file.
